


potpourri

by scrapbullet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-01-25 01:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: POTPOURRInoun; a mixture or medley of things.Tumblr drabbles, et al.(current drabble; submerge, Captain Flint/John Silver, Post-S2, Nightmares, Comfort, CuddlingFlint is no stranger to night terrors.Indeed, he is used to waking after a mere hours rest to the quickening beat of his heart, so quick to rise from his cot that he has fallen to his knees with such force that they ache with a dull, insistent pain. His body trembles with the desire to fight, blood pumping and knuckles white, hands clenched into fists as he tries, and inevitably fails, to ease the lingering fear in his bones.)





	1. vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VOW; 
> 
> noun; a solemn promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reluming](http://reluming.tumblr.com/), asked:
> 
> james/thomas/miranda, things you said when we were the happiest we ever were? :')

“If you hold your hand like _so_ , it looks like you’re holding the moon in your palm,” Miranda murmurs, breath warm against the shell of James’ ear. Her breasts, soft and warm, press against his bare back as she leans in close. “Cup it - _yes, like that_  - now, aren’t you wonderful at taking instruction, hm?”

The blush that rises on James’ face is as hot and red as his hair.

Thomas, his head resting on the solid muscle of their lovers’ thigh, laughs softly, mouth tipping up into a beatific smile. “Do not tease him so, darling! If his cheeks were any pinker he’d be boiled alive!”

“I should hope not,” Miranda replies, with a moue of displeasure. Her lips, kiss-bruised and bitten from James’ mouth, press against his cheek; almost repentant. “We would miss you, so.”

Heart thudding in his chest, James tries to shake off a lingering shroud of unease - and of nervousness. “Would you?” He asks, plaintive, and there is such emotion in the cracked contours of his words that Thomas lurches up, concerned, and Miranda starts, her hands half-raised in an aborted gesture of surprise. 

“Would we, what?” Thomas says, a-hush. His palms cup James’ burning cheeks, their lips mere millimetres apart. 

James shudders. “Would you miss me?” 

The kiss that ensues is answer enough; a passionate clinch that speaks of more than simple, uncomplicated lust. A kiss that speaks of _love_ , of the kind that changes worlds. When they part, be it seconds or minutes or hours, Miranda is there to chase the taste of Thomas from James’ mouth, her tongue so very wicked.

”Always, dear heart,” Thomas soothes, lacing their fingers into one. “Always.”


	2. lustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LUSTRATION; (noun form of lustrate)
> 
> LUSTRATE; 
> 
> verb; purify by expiatory sacrifice, ceremonial washing, or some other ritual action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a conversation with [reluming](www.reluming.tumblr.com) about a certain shop selling a tacky golden skull ornament aptly named Alfred, and it spawned this wee drabble. In honour of Halloween coming up, I suppose! Warnings for mild gore and violence. Hell hath no fury like a Barlow scorned.

The item that sits upon Miranda’s mantelpiece is neither innocuous nor respectable. Placed centrally with two tapered candles in their holders framing it, so as to dress the area and draw the eye, the item - polished to a gleaming shine and tarnished by deep grooves along its smooth pate - has no place in a gentlewoman’s home. 

And yet, the sight of it causes a vindictive kind of joy to swell within Miranda, one that simmers below the surface of an otherwise placid shell. 

She’d skinned the head herself. Blood and viscera had stained her hands red - _though were they not already tainted? Thomas’ death was surely her fault, in part, for not following her dear beloved husband into the rank depths of hell itself to rescue him_ \- as she’d given voice to her hurt and rage. Flesh and muscle slid off of bone, the last remnants of an evil, selfish man ground into mud and despair, and she’d smiled, mouth a mirror of the gaping wound in her heart.

James had watched, his face bleached white as she’d worked. Not a word had passed his lips, but he’d stayed, and that was enough. He’d buried the remains and heated water for her bath, had scrubbed her clean with his bare hands until her skin had stung, sharp and bright - knight and guardian and silent protector.

A catharsis, of a sort.

“It’s a reminder,” she says to James one night - when the humidity of New Providence has forced them out of bed and onto the porch, “of the nature of endurance.”

“It’s a tad macabre,” James replies drolly, lips pursed as he noses at her hair. 

When Miranda leans back, her James is there to catch her. The embrace of his arms is a comfort, now, that quiets the weight in her breast - the monster that roars in agony and demands _more_ , demands James offer his very soul and become just as monstrous and savage as she. “Was it worth it?”

Silence, and James is as still as stone. Like her, a part of him had died when they’re received that awful letter, and only fury ignites his passion. 

“It doesn’t bring him back,” he admits, _sotto voce_ , “but the cross is easier to bear.”


	3. glacé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GLACE;
> 
> adjective; having a smooth, glazed or glossy surface, such as certain silks or leathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Flint/Thomas Hamilton, First Time, PWP

The air is so heavy he can taste it on his tongue. Thick and smoky-sweet, the remnants of their evening meal lingers in his mouth and in the hollow of his belly, warming James from within and causing his cheeks to flush a ruddy pink. Perhaps it’s the wine, red and tart, or the way that Thomas is raking clever fingers through his hair, that has him swaying to the beat of his lovers’ drum, their skin scorching to the touch and glistening with a sheen of sweat.

Whatever the reason, James is drunk on Thomas’ touch, all too eager to dispose of the last of his Lords’ attire. Fabric parts to reveal flesh smooth and soft and without injury, thighs lightly furred with blond hair that James cannot help but touch, lost in the heady aura of lust and intimacy that draws them ever closer.

“You are… stunning,” Thomas breathes, and the dark of his eyes has swallowed up the blue, as lost in the throes of passion as James is. “ _God, James_ ,” low and sultry, words lost against the arch of James’ throat as he presses close, “ _I dreamt of this_. Of you, in my arms. Your mouth on mine, _your skin_ … oh, James...”

And lo, the softness of a mattress at James’ calves, and with an alluring grin Thomas palms James’ chest - nails catching on peaked nipples, sharp and sweet - and _pushes_. Breath escapes James in a rush, disorientated. His head spins from wine and heat and arousal, shuddering with an intense and urgent need.

Thomas, his skin all but glowing in the candle light, crawls upon the bed. Lissome, he straddles James’ hips and steals the air from James’ lungs with a kiss, lips plush and demanding. 

James surrenders. How can he not? His body burns, and Thomas is a balm. His body trembles, arcing against Thomas in a tremulous wave as they converge, prick to prick and pleasure seeping in like molasses… and Thomas is solace.

“ _Thomas_ ,” James gasps, and the world narrows, until all that exists is the two of them, undulating and intertwined. A supple slender palm surrounds them both, stroking as they grind together. 

“James… _yes…_ …”

Rapture, when it comes, is breath-taking. Cooling spend clings to the wiry hairs of Thomas’ chest and, enraptured, James slicks his fingers with their combined seed and licks them clean. Beside him, languid and satisfied, Thomas murmurs a gruff entreaty.

“Worry not, dear Lord,” James says, mischief in his every word, “I will be sure to leave a morsel for you.”


	4. triad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIAD;
> 
> noun; a union or group of three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abigail Ashe/Billy Bones/Ben Gunn, Post-Finale, Fluff, Domesticity, Pregnancy, Poly

It’s an unlikely arrangement that they have, but it works. The little cottage used to be so empty with just two - her and Billy and a tentative silence between them brimming with unasked questions and old fury - but three is a perfectly adequate number, in Abigail’s experience. Ben’s arrival has begun to ease something in Billy, something that Abigail herself had despaired at - for although she loves him she does not truly _know_ him, not in the way that his pirate brother does.

That they were once lovers, before Billy had come to Savannah, is no surprise at all.

It helps, of course, that Ben is easy to get along with. He is small and quiet, with a core of strength in his lithe frame and a mischievous intelligence in his eyes that is appealing. He talks to her as if she is an equal - as more than just Billy’s wife - and his quick hands make light work of the chores around the house, chores that are piling up now that she is heavily pregnant. 

(“You’re a sweet one,” Ben says with a wink, when she brings him a cup of tea. “You’re good for him, and he for you I’d wager.” 

It’s the kind of approval that makes Abigail’s skin go hot, and later, when she walks in on Ben and Billy sitting close by the fire she is struck by such a sense of _rightness_ that she has to lean against the door frame to ground herself.

He makes her Billy laugh, does Ben, and that can only ever be for the good.)

When Billy is away, Ben is a welcome comfort, and Abigail soon begins to look forward to the hour her dear, stoic husband comes home to their dual greeting, a warmth in the deep-set lines around his eyes. It’s all too clear to her that as three - soon to be four, when the baby arrives - they form the best kind of family, one filled with contentment and joy.

(“Ben should stay,” she says, apropos of nothing, as she is tying her hair in a simple braid before bed. The roundness of her belly is tight against the soft wool of her nightgown, and she sighs as Billy - tired from a long day at work - rests his big hands on her shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I like how you are when he’s here, and I rather like him, too.”

Billy hums, and nuzzles his cheek to hers. His stubble catches on her skin, making her shiver. “My clever, perceptive wife,” he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. “Is there anything your eagle eyes can’t see?”

Abigail grins, and turns into his arms, breathing in and sighing gently at the surety of his touch. Billy’s hands are rough from life and from toil, and they feel so very good against her skin. “You are as an open book to me. And I believe him to be… amenable.” 

“You’ve already brought this up with him, haven’t you?” Billy accuses, brow lowered in a frown in an attempt to hide his burgeoning amusement. 

“Perhaps,” Abigail replies coyly, and, “go fetch your lover, darling, so we might share our bed together.”

Suffice to say; they really do need a bigger bed.)

When the baby comes, it is Ben who fetches the midwife. He is the calm so desperately needed with Billy so far from home, and it is Ben that slides in behind her on the bed to grip her hand as she cries. It is Ben who swaddles the boy when he tears free of her body, and it is he who settles the baby - Hal, tiny and red and very unhappy at being torn from his warm and safe place within her - on her chest to feed. 

“Well done, lass,” Ben whispers, his eyes bright. “Well done.”

The kiss she gives him is one tainted with tears of pain and happiness, but she rather thinks he doesn’t mind.

Now if only Billy were here, she would be complete.


	5. submerge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUBMERGE;
> 
> verb; to descend below the surface of an area of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Flint/John Silver, Post-S2, Nightmares, Comfort, Cuddling

Flint is no stranger to night terrors. 

Indeed, he is used to waking after a mere hours rest to the quickening beat of his heart, so quick to rise from his cot that he has fallen to his knees with such force that they ache with a dull, insistent pain. His body trembles with the desire to fight, blood pumping and knuckles white, hands clenched into fists as he tries, and inevitably fails, to ease the lingering fear in his bones.

It happens often. Not nightly, no, but often enough that there are dark rings under his eyes and Silver begins to look at him with wary concern. Silver will stare, brow lowered into a frown and lips parted as if to speak-

-but he does not, and Flint is not entirely sure that he wants to answer the questions bubbling on plush lips.

Truth; Flint cannot sleep for long. When he closes his eyes he sees her face, and the lurid red hole in her forehead, and his anguish rises like a tumultuous wave, frothing and rolling and threatening to pull him under. When finally he slumbers he does not know of what he dreams, recalls naught but the despair - deep and dark and wholly consuming - until he wakes, gasping, curled on the floor of the cabin with fresh bruises.

Truth; Silver stays by his side during daylight hours. He is a shadow, a crutch, a balm. He comes not at night until the night he does, when he quietly closes the door behind him and locks it, ensuring privacy in the face of Flint’s weakness.

“This cannot continue,” Silver murmurs, as he pushes a shoulder under Flint’s arm. He is not the most graceful of men, with the boot, but he manages it with nothing more than a slight stumble, bearing Flint’s weight. “Just this once, Captain, _let me help you_.”

This waif, by God, lifts Flint upward, onward, following Flint onto the swaying cot. It is a tight fit for two, but Silver manages it, his chest pressed tight to Flint’s back and his arms encircling.

Exhausted, Flint shakes his head. “What help can you give me?” He asks, mouth twisting into a wry sneer. “What pain I bear is mine, and mine alone. _I bear it alone_.”

“You do,” Silver hums, and it is a tremor that echoes through Flint and lingers, in the hollow of his chest. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t hold you through the night regardless.”

Sharp words sit on the tip of Flint’s tongue, ready to cut, to eviscerate. To push Silver away, when in truth, the warmth of Silver’s body and the comfort of his embrace causes Flint to exhale, tremulous.

“Just this once, Captain,” Silver repeats, and he presses a whiskery, chaste kiss to Flint’s neck.

Flint subsides, bone-tired. 

He sleeps, and Silver watches over him.


End file.
